


But bring with you your swords

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, Helcaraxë
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:52:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they carried with them across the Ice, and what they left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But bring with you your swords

They had travelled light from the beginning, carrying with them only those of their treasures that were dearest to their hearts. For though Fëanáro had extorted them to leave all the works of their hands behind, by general consensus it was agreed that the prince’s words had been intended metaphorically; they were Ñoldor after all, and that meant something. It meant the works of one’s hands, the tactile satisfaction of holding the things of craft. There was an old saying: the objects one makes carry pieces of the _fëa_ , and many believed it still. 

It was apt, then, the word would sometimes run around the camp on the Ice, that they were slowly but surely leaving their possessions behind as they made their way across this frozen wasteland. Even as they left the bodies of the dead, they left all the bright objects they had thought would light their darkness, in the new lands, would keep their hearts sustained. Some were left as offerings or tokens for the dead. Some were left simply because there was no one strong enough to carry them, who could not be put to better use carrying a child or some gear instead. 

Their armour, too, they left behind, more and more as the time wore on, demarcated only by the endless whorl of stars and vivid green and red light above their heads. Whatever fight they had expected in the new lands had not come, and did not seem like to, not then. Besides, metal armour was a danger and a liability in the cold, for it could freeze and tear off the outer layer of skin with a single touch. 

When it did come, it was at the Lammoth, a surprise attack. They were lightly armed, much of their armour lying in frozen heaps back on the ice, all those deadly miles ago, to expose yielding furs and leathers - and the painfully vulnerable flesh beneath - to the merciless scimitars of the orcs. 

The king’s youngest son fell then, his light leather armour punctured in the stomach, chest and side, his life-blood gushing upon the frozen-hard soil. They had all said they would replace their armour, in the new lands, everything would be replaced in the new lands, rebuilt new and strong. But it was not quick enough to save Arakáno; the time had been so short, between leaving the Ice and the settlement. Such a short time between life and death, between victory and defeat, a whole people clinging to the very edge of survival, though determined to live on. 

One thing never got abandoned on the Ice though; their beloved king, Ñolofinwë, always wore his sword, all the day. Through blizzard and storm, walking hunched over against the cold, he would wear it in a scabbard strapped to his back by a baldric, a figure of hope and endurance. 

He would never, ever set down his sword, many said. He would never lay it down, or stop moving, until Moringotto and his foul horde were all dead and destroyed, or he himself was. Not until he had brought them justice with Fëanáro for this suffering, not until he had righted this great wrong. And if he could not achieve that, then not until the world ended.


End file.
